


The Permanent Efficacy of Grace

by angelwithblackeyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Crossroads Demon Crowley (Supernatural), Human Castiel, M/M, Manipulative Crowley, Priest Castiel, Priest Kink, Sub Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-29 16:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12089091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelwithblackeyes/pseuds/angelwithblackeyes
Summary: Crowley stood silent. Someone loved this church; someone in this church loved God, and not in any perfunctory or abstract way, but burning and alive and pure. Someone here so profoundly wanted –neededto serve that even the task of polishing the candlesticks was an act of devotion, to be carried out with ritual precision and concentration. He smiled. Someone here was a worthy challenge, a soul well worth the struggle.The king of the crossroads was happiest when he was selling sin to saints. Watching a truly virtuous human reject the light and embrace depravity was among the greatest rewards his occupation had to offer. So when he met the devoted small-town priest with the blue eyes and the odd name, he knew he had to have him.And so he did.





	The Permanent Efficacy of Grace

**Author's Note:**

> To any Catholics who might stumble onto this fic, I apologize in advance for any and all of what you are about to read. In my defense, 1.) I am an ex-Catholic and 2.) Crowley made me do it.

* * *

_Thus saith the Lord God; An evil, an only evil, behold, is come. An end is come, the end is come: it watcheth for thee; behold, it is come._

Ezekiel 7:5–6              

* * *

 

When the king of the crossroads came to a town, he made a point of visiting the houses of worship. It wasn’t that they were so much easier; mostly he just enjoyed the irony. Still, Catholics were his favorite, because of the celibacy – couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a priest who’d sell his soul for a taste of something forbidden.

The little midwestern town had two churches. One was a squat brick building with an ample parking lot and a giant cross on top. The other, just out of town, was a once-graceful wooden chapel, so old it would appear decrepit if not for the well-kept cemetery and the colorful, flourishing gardens out front. He had spent a week at the brick one and made a killing – it was remarkable what people thought was worth a soul when they lived in a town of 2500 people, surrounded by bleak flat nothingness on all sides.

The big double doors opened with a loud satisfying creak. As Crowley entered, he was bathed in the light cascading through the windows, the heavy tones of the sun through stained glass reflecting from lovingly oiled pews, glinting softly on the golden candlesticks and the censer which hung burning beside the altar.

Crowley stood silent. Someone _loved_ this church; someone in this church loved God, and not in any perfunctory or abstract way, but burning and alive and pure. Someone here so profoundly wanted – _needed_ to serve that even the task of polishing the candlesticks was an act of devotion, to be carried out with ritual precision and concentration. He smiled. Someone here was a worthy challenge, a soul well worth the struggle.

When the priest came out of the sacristy and rounded the corner, there was no question. He was young, clean-shaven, with earnest blue eyes and a solemn set to his jaw; he smiled in a peaceful, contented way without even being aware of it. He saw Crowley and blinked, his eyes clouding over with concern. “Hello,” he said, and Crowley was surprised by his voice, low and gravelly and not at all what he had expected. “Can I help you with something?”

“Quite the opposite, Father.” Crowley sat down at one of the pews, slid aside to make room. The priest sat down easily beside him, his forehead crinkled solicitously.

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I mean I’m here to help you.”

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t follow. Who are you?”

“Traveling salesman.”

“What do you sell?”

“What do you want to buy?”

The priest now looked truly bewildered. Crowley was amused by this, and also somewhat gratified: despite his handsome face, the priest would be the type to remain utterly oblivious to the lusts of his flock, the veiled remarks of the more forward among them. He placed a hand on his knee, and sure enough, the priest only waited for clarification, unruffled by the suggestive touch.

“You’re a true man of God, Father. Anyone can see that.”

He hesitated in thought. “I try to be useful to the Lord and His children, but I don’t see what – ”

“And that’s why I’d like to help you. You love God. God loves you. You care deeply about God’s children, and you’d give anything you could to help them. Isn’t that right, Father?”

“Of course I – ”

“Well, if you let me, I can help you do that. I can show you a better way.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I have a deal to propose.”

“What is it?”

“Let’s discuss it over dinner.”

“I have duties here.”

“Surely the house of God can stand without you for the space of an evening, darling.”

“It can, but I…”

“Please, Father. Dinner will be my treat, and I’ll put a few coins in the collection plate for your time.” His smile was quick and disarming. “Even with the best of intentions on both sides, business is better conducted over the dinner table than in the church.”

“That’s true.” The priest looked around, his resolve clearly weakening.

“Of course it is.”

“And dinner is necessary.”

“Exactly. So come on, Father. Walk with me.” He got up, held out his arm, and the priest stood too, although he did not take his arm, just looked down and fidgeted with the band of his wristwatch momentarily before he stepped out into the aisle. He turned toward the front of the church, genuflected deeply, and crossed himself, his head bowed.

Crowley waited and watched, hands in his pockets, smiling inwardly. He had all the time in the world, and the elaborate rituals of faith were so deeply charming; they were the flowers that would bear forbidden fruit, their scent a mere promise, a suggestion, of future sweetness. Of course it didn’t hurt that the priest was so delectable himself. If he played this right, Crowley thought, perhaps a more literal defrocking could be arranged.

“You seem lost in thought,” the priest observed as they made their way to the door.

“Very perceptive of you,” he replied dryly. “Just reflecting on… other business.”

“I see.” The priest smiled, that gentle contented smile, and nodded.

Crowley opened the door for him and they walked out into the evening. The air smelled of wood smoke and freshly mowed lawns. Dogs barked in the distance. Crowley could see families in the park, parents grilling, kids riding bikes.

“Lovely town,” Crowley observed.

“Yes, it is.” The priest smiled, easy and genuine, and looked over at him. “Have you been in town long?”

“Not long.”

“I hope you’ll stay a bit longer.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“You could celebrate Mass with us.”

“Hm.” Crowley paused to inspect a nearby storefront, to hide his smirk. Antiques ‘N’ Moore. Not exactly imaginative. “That would certainly be interesting, Father.”

“Interesting?”

“But right now I’m more interested in getting to know you.”

“There’s nothing to know,” he said. Then he paused. “I forgot to ask your name. I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”

“Not at all, Father. I’m Crowley.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Crowl- “

“Just Crowley, actually.”

“Then it’s good to meet you, Crowley.” A group of children rollerbladed past, avoiding looking at them. The priest watched them with concern, undoubtedly because they lacked helmets. For his part Crowley was momentarily distracted by surprise that rollerblades still existed. The priest turned his attention back to him. “I’m Father Castiel Novak. Most people call me Father Cas.”

“Castiel.” Crowley glanced at him sidelong, thinking. “Angel of Thursday.” Father Cas smiled. Crowley smiled back. For a moment he could smell flowers on the breeze.

 


End file.
